


Taking Care

by ghuune



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Blowjobs, Cockles, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fluff, Frottage, Light Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, convention fic, tinhat!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghuune/pseuds/ghuune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DallasCon, 2014. Misha and Jensen have a chance to reconnect after a period of time spent apart, but the stresses of the job and the fandom are getting to them both. Misha POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Care

I. SEPTEMBER 19-20th, 2014: TAKING CARE  
Misha sat in the oversized reading chair in his hotel room, mindlessly surfing Twitter, pretending to read. Words didn't penetrate. Nothing had since Jensen sent his text:

*We're OK for tonight* 

an hour ago, from the airport. Misha hadn't replied. Jen would know he'd read the thing because of the notification screen, and besides, how could he possibly respond? He couldn't compress his feelings into a few lines, and no way would Jensen wade through a wall of text. So he waited.

He didn't look up when his door opened, but when he caught the complex scent of Jensen's expensive soap, felt the subtle heat of him, warm and freshly showered, he rose to meet his kiss.

Jensen pulled him the rest of the way out of the chair and wrapped his arms around his lower back, pulling him against him. Beneath the harsh commercial mint of toothpaste was his own dark flavor. Misha wanted more of it, but the soft, unhurried way Jensen kissed let Misha know that driving in would be wrong, so he choked back his impatience. After any hiatus, Jensen needed time to reconnect, to touch, to ground himself. Misha understood that. He could slow down.

He drew back, noted the dark circles beneath Jensen's eyes, the lines drawn around his mouth. He'd come straight here from a fourteen-hour shoot in Vancouver. He was exhausted. Truth be told? So was Misha.

The last six months had been brutal. The work never stopped. The Show had to be shot; Misha had his projects; the fans were there, as always, but this year they were angry—at themselves, at the Show, and, fairly or not, at the actors. How many times had all three of them cried from stress and sheer exhaustion? How many panic attacks had Jensen talked himself through, shaking, breath whistling through a throat narrowed to the width of a soda straw? Danneel was a dab hand at redirecting him, but she wasn't always available. Jared was best at it, but right now, with his depression on an upswing, he had himself to look after. Misha was hardly on set any more, and the thought of Jensen suffering alone kept him up at night.

The upshot was, six months was a long time to fight a running battle without a break.

“You didn't sleep on the plane, big guy?” he said, cradling Jensen's jaw in his palm. Jensen shook his head. His cheek rubbed smooth against his hand, and Misha's heart squeezed inside his chest as he imagined Jen racing into his hotel room, showering, shaving, brushing his teeth, his face in the mirror, those marks of age that upset him so much.

Jensen's breath washed over Misha's wrist as he admitted, “I was too excited to see you.”

“Same here,” Misha said, tipping his head to meet Jen's eyes, exerting gentle pressure so he'd raise his head. “Same,” he said, a little more urgently, because Jen's eyes were teary and red.

They stared at each other.

“I don't know, Mish,” he said at last. “I just feel beat, man.”

“I know,” Misha said. He sipped a kiss from Jensen's mouth and then pressed his forehead against his. “Want to just lie down?” 

Jensen's eyes flashed up to his. “We aren't gonna get another—”

“I know,” and holy shit, did he. If he passed this up tonight, who knew when they'd get another chance? But still. This was about more than sex. “Jen,” he said, holding his eyes, “I'm not into necrophilia. C'mere.”

He gathered Jensen to him. Jen hooked his chin over his left shoulder and sagged until Misha felt the strain in his back and legs. He locked his abs and took the weight, because that very looseness told him everything he needed to know about how badly Jensen needed to be looked after. His vulnerability hurt.

“Lie down,” he ordered, and Jensen nodded against his shoulder.

They sat on opposite edges of the bed, took off their shoes, pulled off their shirts, shucked their pants. Jensen changed into loose shorts he took from his overnight bag. Misha wore a loud pair of pajama pants, blue jersey printed with yellow ducks.

Jensen raised dubious eyebrows. “You serious?” 

“As serious as income tax,” Misha replied, straight faced. Jensen broke up, but even his laughter sounded half-hearted, not the full-throated roar Misha liked best.

“C'mere,” Misha repeated, and pulled back the blankets so Jensen could crawl in beside him. He turned out the light, wrapping them in darkness.

Jensen, pressed hot against his back. The freshness his soap was almost too strong, and Misha wished he could smell the honest scent of his skin. The man smelled like fresh-cut hay and the ocean; it'd taken him two years to parse out that smell, and he resented having it covered by pricey perfume. What would it take to make the man use unscented soap? An Act of God, probably.

Jensen pressed his lips to the nape of Misha's neck, his arm draped over his waist, his hand petting the curve of Misha's stomach. Misha hated his loose little tummy, but Jensen palmed it like it was something precious. 

He brushed his plush lips against Misha's earlobe. Misha struggled to remain still as his nerves sang. He wasn't playing fair, but then again, he hardly ever did. His fingertips gently stroked Misha's where they rested, loose against the pillow. The contact seared as though he painted his skin with lava.

“I miss you,” Jensen rumbled. “Thanks for talking me down last week.” Now there was a hot, wet touch, his tongue on Misha's neck. Misha's breath caught, but he covered it with a huff. Must not let him know how turned on he was. For one thing, that meant the bastard had won. For another, Jen really did need to sleep.

Jensen's breath fluttered, cool against the wetness his tongue had left on Misha's skin, his long legs, rough with hair, braided with his own. His semi pressed against the curve of Misha's ass, but that, in and of itself, was not a call to action. Jen pretty much always sported at least a semi around him, especially during the kind of dry spell they were in. 

“You're welcome. Go to sleep,” Misha said.

“You wanna sleep?” 

Misha all but groaned. No, he did not want to fucking sleep, but god damn it, he was trying to be the good guy here. “When's the last time you slept, Jen?”

“I think, Thursday?”

“So there. Shut up. Stop _lipping_ me. Go the fuck to sleep.”

The tide of their combined breathing in the darkness. Misha focused on the whisk of air in and out of his nostrils, beginning the routine that got his too-busy brain to shut the fuck up and leave him alone so he could rest.

“You're so far away,” Jensen said then, reversing all his meditative work in five small syllables. Misha knew he didn't mean physically.

“I know. There's not enough time.”

Jensen huffed a short, hurt breath against his neck.

And Misha said, “Sorry.”

“For what?” 

He hadn't meant to bring it up, that's what. “Everyone knows Jared's hanging on by his fingernails.”

Jensen's voice was tight when he said, “What does Jared have to do with anything?” 

“Nothing at all. Completely superfluous.”

“You haven't been shooting.”

“I know.”

“Jared has nothing to do with that.”

“I know, Jen.” 

But shooting didn't have anything to do with why Jensen didn't Skype with him the way he used to. Shooting didn't have anything to do with why he only called when he was desperate with baseless terror and needed to be talked down from his tree. Those things had everything to do with Jared, cracking under the strain of angry fans screaming about canon Destiel—-a situation which was one hundred percent their own damned fault. Those things had everything to do with the conversation Misha would bet his life they'd had, the one in which Jared asked for more support while he battled his demons.

That wasn't Misha's business, though, and he didn't want to fight. He caressed Jensen's fingers, willing him to drop it. “Can we sleep?” he asked, choosing to ignore the pleading undercurrent in his tone. 

After a long pause, Jensen said, “I feel like something's ending.”

Misha squeezed his eyes shut. “It scares me when you say that, Jen.” The pleading tone was no longer an undercurrent, but the actual current, carrying his words along. That need, and Misha's own innate honesty, prompted him to ask, “Do you still---?”

“Always,” Jensen said, strong and definite, the word gusting in his ear.

“Then that's all I need,” Misha said. “Everything's all right. I promise. Go to sleep.”  
\--  
The next morning he woke up to Jensen's face in front of his. At some point in the night he'd turned towards him, and so the first thing he noticed when he woke were the freckles spattering the bridge of Jen's perfect nose.

His morning hard-on nudged Jen's flat stomach. Misha debated whether to wake him for a little something before the day got underway, but a quick glance at his wrist watch made him groan and disentangle himself. He was legitimately late. Jensen, as one of the stars of the show, had the privilege of reporting to panels and photo ops a little later than he, consummate second banana, did. 

Jensen complained sleepily, then rolled over and stuck his face into the pillow. Misha gritted his teeth as he noted the way Jensen's hips flexed, driving his morning wood against the mattress, his ass a perfect sin-cosin-tangent curve. God was fucking with him. It was the only explanation. 

He unlocked Jen's cell phone. Jen had an alarm set, because of course he did. He could be a space cadet at times, but no one could ever accuse him of not being responsible. Misha put the cell on the night table where Jensen would be sure to hear it when it went off, making sure the volume was all the way up. Then he cupped the back of Jensen's skull, soft hair tickling his palm.

There wasn't time for a shower. He combed his hair (it promptly went all Harry Potter again as soon as he put the comb down, like always), got dressed and booked it downstairs. He was aware, the entire time, of the guys inside his mental sweatshop toiling tirelessly away at something. Some plan was forming, but he didn't dig for it. He'd wait until it was ready to be born.  
\--  
He was talking to fans, smiling, being that guy who played Cas, when the reliable, hardworking folks down in the sweatshop produced an idea. A nice prank to play on Jen. 

Something they could laugh about together later. Or maybe something Jen would want to kick his ass for. Just as good. 

At any rate, a reason for Jen to fucking call.  
\--  
The “stroke kit” was a thing Misha had already arranged as a surprise for Rob, based on an inside joke that came about when Misha first heard Rob's litany of symptoms in October 2013. “Jesus fucking Christ, Rob, those are all stroke things!” he'd shouted, approximately fifteen seconds before hounding the man straight into the hospital. That'd been the right call. Turned out Rob's carotid artery had dissected and thrown a clot, and “stroke things” had been the magic words which saved his life. The fact that it also sounded kind of pervy? Was just a bonus.

Per Misha's request, convention staff had already arranged Rob's wrapped presents on a table onstage.

“Okay, Mastercleanse,” Misha said to Richard, “see all those pretty boxes? All those pretty boxes are for Rob. Your job is to get him to open them, like as soon as possible.”

Richard shrugged. “Sure, no problem,” he said. “Nothing in there that's going to cause a riot or get us all arrested, is there?”

Misha grinned slyly, a grin which became a full smile when Rich went pale. 

Rob was upstage horseplaying with Jared, who picked him up and spun him around so Rob howled laughter up into his face. Jared looked focused, serious, not at all playful. His medication seemed to be working, but his mood was like a wall of dark water behind a dam. Off to the side, Jensen kept a protective eye on him. No wonder the man was exhausted; watching him ride herd on Jared made Misha tired on his behalf. 

“You and Rob stay in front of me,” he said to Rich. “Whatever you do, don't turn around.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Misha. What are you planning?”

“That's for Jensen to find out. Relax. No one's gonna notice, because you're gonna do such a good job giving Rob his presents.”

Rich blew out and rolled his eyes. “Would it kill you to cool it with the flirting? Forget I asked. That's a stupid question. Look, I'll do what I can.” 

Misha slapped Rich on his shoulder in thanks.

Misha stood behind Rich as he called Rob over to open his presents, speaking to the crowd but with his attention on Jensen, visible from the corner of his eye, watching him from the other side of the stage. He smiled to himself. No matter what, Jen always watched him. And no matter what, he was always aware of it, so really, which one of them was the sadder sack?

Rob opened the box that contained the bottle of lubricant.

“Stroke kit,” Misha said, blurring his words into a sexual pun that the guys on stage quickly and happily echoed. Under the cover of their roaring laughter, he slipped his hand into the gap of his button-up shirt, pushing it to the side to show his unzipped fly, making sure to keep his index finger visible in front. A finger that'd been inside Jen more times than either of them could count, slicked with lube. From the way Jensen's eyes widened and the way he sucked in his breath, the joke found its mark.

But, as it turned out, this weapon took out both sides. Memory (Jensen sucking honey off his fingers as he knelt at his feet, green eyes almost swallowed by yawning black pupils staring worshipfully up at him, oh God) slammed him. His dick got hard as fast as though he were sixteen again. Dammit, dammit, _damn it_. He continued talking to the crowd, barely aware of what he was saying, focused on reversing what was about to become an embarrassingly obvious hard-on. This was not an easy thing he was attempting, what with Jen staring straight at his crotch, stricken and undone, _and it's all over if you look at him, Dmitri,_ but it was too late to back out now. _Good job, jackass,_ Misha thought with amused chagrin, _you just managed to play yourself._

The lubricant was causing a sensation. Misha, his flank to the screaming crowd, hoped his semi wasn't visible in profile. He let his shirt fall back over it, concealing it, and exhaled in relief. He might have actually gotten away with it.

Jensen was babbling about the lube: “You never know when you might have to get out of a tight situation.”

“Or into a tight—Oh, shit,” Jared said.

Fuck!

Misha laughed and sought Jensen's eyes, willing him to laugh too. _Take it as a joke;_ he tried to arrow that thought into Jensen's brain, but Jen wasn't open to him. He snapped a hurt and stricken glare at his brother and then gripped a chair, tendons wired tight along the backs of his hands and insides of his wrists. Jared assiduously avoided his eyes, gazing out over the crowd, grinning, snapping his gum, every inch a cheeky motherfucker. 

Jen bowed his head and blinked down at the boards of the stage, his jaw flexing as he tried to regain control.

Damn. It. Misha casually scanned the audience, noted the number of cameras and phones pointed at them. Gifs of this moment would be all over Tumblr by Monday.

No point in getting pissed off at Jared. Even if he weren't medicated to the gills today, which he was, Jared just didn't see what the big deal was about the closet, and he damn sure didn't get why Jensen stayed in it. Jensen's family was religious, but they weren't assholes. He had a place on Supernatural no matter who he was screwing; obviously, Misha was no big secret—there might still be a couple of production assistants who'd be shocked to stumble across them making out.

But Jensen remained closeted---loosely closeted, but closeted---for his own reasons, mostly having to do with the fandom. If it came out—-ha, ha—-that he was screwing Misha and not Jared, as most of them fantasized, the ensuing shitstorm might well paint the whole world brown. 

If only Jen had laughed! The fans would have taken it as a joke! Misha, his stomach sinking, realized this was actually his fault; if he hadn't just been teasing him, he wouldn't have been feeling vulnerable. Right now, though, he looked like he wouldn't mind dropping dead.

As soon as they could gracefully exit the stage, Misha cut to Jensen's side and grabbed his upper arm. “Excuse us a minute,” he said to Jared, who raised his eyebrows. 

“I thought Rob was God around here,” he said.

“Excuse them a minute,” Rob said from a few feet away, answering his cue.

Misha gave Rob a look of pure gratitude and steered Jen to a quiet corner, blocked off by crates.

He'd thought he'd be soothing a Jensen on the edge of a panic attack. He'd thought he'd be apologizing. Instead he found himself spun around and slammed against the wall with a hungry Jen glued to the front of his body, his desperate tongue slicking Misha's lips before he could open for him.

His hand busy at the button of Misha's jeans, not bothering with the fly, which was still gaping undone and good thing, too, because the rapidity with which Misha flashed hard would have been painful otherwise. Misha's stunned surprise didn't last long. He gathered a double handful of Ackles ass and pulled him hard between his legs, grinding against him, Jen's naked erection rutting against the cotton still shielding his own. Jen, going commando again. He liked to live dangerously. Misha laughed around the kiss, messy and needy as it was, more from relief than amusement.

“I oughta kick your ass, you little shit,” Jen grumbled in between wet, open kisses up the sides of his neck.

“You need to make a list,” Misha muttered back. His swollen lips tingled, nearly numb. He wished he could see Jen in the gloom, his cheekbones red and every freckle darkened, lips and heavy eyelids. 

“Damned either way,” Jensen grunted, “I'm gonna enjoy the ride.”

Through his light-headed buzz, Misha was aware of how fucking dumb they were being, heavy petting behind stage for anyone to find, but he couldn't make himself put on the brakes. All the frustration of last night, and the astounding lust he'd felt on stage, and that memory, which was one of the best. He wanted Jen's cock, but Jen was pressed so hard against him there just wasn't room, grinding fast and hard and broken as they panted, their foreheads pressed to each other's shoulders, in between frenzied kisses.

Misha gasped as Jensen grabbed his wrist and stuck his fingers in his mouth, sucked them wet, soft, busy tongue. Sparks of sensation staggered him; the floor went out from under. Jensen pressed him harder against the wall to keep him standing, still grinding against him, the pressure of their hard-ons sliding together so teasingly pleasurable, it nearly crossed the line to pain. 

Once Misha's fingers were thoroughly wet, Jen shoved his hand down the back of his jeans. Misha knew what he was after, and he gave it, sliding his fingers up and down the sensitive opening of Jen's ass before he pressed inside his tight, dry heat. Jen's gasp exploded out of him, mouth hanging open and distorted. Misha ignored his whine of protest as he slid down to the floor, a whine which changed almost immediately to a hollow moan as he took the head of Jensen's cock in his mouth. 

“Oh, yes please, Mish, do that, please c'mon, harder.” 

Words unfurled like a torn flag from his mouth. The things this man said when he was turned on, Misha could not believe. His eyes fluttered shut as a painful desire rocked him.

Harder, he'd said? He did that, speeding the thrust of his fingers, hollowing his cheeks as he swallowed Jensen down. Jen surged, choking him, but he didn't mind, not today. He got dizzy as he ran out of air, Jensen blocking his windpipe, but he'd be damned if he cried uncle; he could take this. 

He didn't have to for long. Jen writhed and battered the wall and came with a harsh, bitten cry, too deep in Misha's throat for him to taste more than vague brine, which was a damned shame. He loved Jen's flavor as much as he loved his smell. Hell, he just loved him, and this was one of the few ways he could show it; he could, and would, take care of Jen, every single damn way he was allowed.

Jen gathered him up and set him back on his feet, embraced him with his forehead pressed into the bend of his neck. “I'm sorry,” he said huskily.

“God, for what?” Misha said. 

“I was rough.” Jensen brushed his lips over his skin and Misha writhed against him. Jen was post-orgasmic but Misha was not, and those were not the best two ingredients for cuddling he'd ever seen in his life.

“And I'm made of glass. Poor me, you shattered me,” Misha said. “Shut up and do me a favor, Jensen, jesus.”

Jensen dropped like he'd been shot, pulled the waistband of his underpants down along with his jeans, and Misha once again felt the depth of the stupidity of what they were doing, but along the edge of that awareness was also the knowledge that, hey, this risk they were taking, getting caught with their dicks literally out some saucer-eyed fangirl or one of the guys with a camera phone? 

Fucking hot.

Jensen sucked him off like he was made of sugar, swirled his tongue around his head in a way that made Misha collapse back against the wall and huff for air, his fingers clenched to keep from grabbing Jensen's head, because Jen hated that. Soft, slow, torture. Misha banged the wall and tried to stifle his cries, which got louder and higher pitched the closer he came, but so damn slowly he really worried he'd pass out before he made it.

Jensen laughed around him. That sadistic son of a bitch.

The hollow, sweet pleasure-pain built in the pit of his stomach, his cock so engorged it felt as though the skin would split, his balls drawn tight and full. Misha threw his head back against the wall to swallow air down his tight throat, creeling, poised on the pained brink, a single silver needle of sensation shot all down his spine.

Then Jensen swallowed him. And he shot immediately as the tight, wet walls enclosed him, working as Jensen swallowed and hummed and swallowed, too many sensations all at once after the extended, frustrating tease. Jen pressed a hard hand against his mouth to muffle his cries.

Misha kissed his palm as all the tension drained from him. 

“See?” Jensen said, releasing him, settling back on his heels to gaze up at him, his face soft and open and shining. “I can take care of you, too.”


End file.
